"...you/ must create a likeness of/ the dark for dark/ to disappear." ~ Alice Fulton Once we might have felt time to be endless, but not endless-endless. For we've always known even such endlessness has limits, which is why a clock can have a second hand, a minute hand. The seconds clip around, miniature racehorses. The hours pull their slower weight across a smooth track which lights up under its crystal dome at night, at the press of a tiny button. Sitting next to you, our shoulders touching, I can see out the window how the early darkness makes a well into which the whole yard falls: a world with its own history, a world that began for us even before the tree in the garden raised a few last fruits to the sky like darkly leathered flags, refusing to surrender. In time, we say; or out of time, ahead of time, one day at a time— always measuring how much we let it have: how many silver distances burn in the cup of the porch light's blinking beacon all night, how many moth bodies fade like aubades.
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